


Throw a Space-Prawn on the Barbie

by Morninglight (orphan_account)



Series: Colonel Shepard, Australian Digger [3]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Barbecue, Gen, Kill It With Fire, Reapers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 10:31:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4621989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Morninglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Umm, uh, let’s throw a space-prawn on the barbie?”</p><p>Colonel Regan Shepard shows the Reapers why bushfires in an Australian summer are deadly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Throw a Space-Prawn on the Barbie

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warnings for death and violence. Though this is third in the Colonel Shepard, Australian Digger series, it’s a prequel to Parts 1-2.

As a Queenslander, Colonel Regan Shepard felt a sour satisfaction at watching Sydney be wiped from the face of the earth by the Reapers after Brisbane Coast had been hit first. The 2nd/14th Light Horse Regiment (Queensland Mounted Infantry) out of Enoggera Barracks had been doing war manoeuvres with a New Zealander battalion under Major Ngaire Parata in the bush when the giant space-prawns hit Vancouver and wiped out what was left of High Command after the Poms were toast. Lieutenant Commander Ashley Williams had apparently taken the Normandy to get aid from the rest of the galaxy, leaving a last transmission for everyone on Earth to hang on, she would come back.

            Regan wasn’t minded to simply hang on. She was minded to raise some fucking hell. And the Blue Mountains held Australia’s repository of eezo, assets she’d been commanded to deny the enemy. It was summertime, the trees dry as tinder under the harsh Australian sun, and she was going to make the Reapers _burn._

            “Signals are set up, Colonel,” reported one of the Kiwi Engineers. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

            “So do I,” Shepard admitted, probably not boosting morale any. “Give the order to fall back – and if I don’t come back, Ngaire’s in charge.”

            “Yes, ma’am!”

            The soldiers, survivors one and all, fell back as one of the space-prawns pulled themselves from the gorging of the techno-corpse that was Sydney to come investigate the signals that hinted at a large Alliance presence. There _was_ a large Alliance presence here, but most of them had fallen back into the cave systems and old silos which dotted the Blue Mountains, only Regan and a small squad remaining on the surface. These were the people who accepted they may not come back from this mission… but making the Reapers burn was worth the danger of death.

            “So, any final words from the suppository of wisdom?” One of the volunteers, some guy from Cabramatta who’d been accepted into the N7 programme the day the Reapers hit, asked dryly.

            “Umm, uh, let’s throw a space-prawn on the barbie?” Regan was good at witty repartee (or the Australian equivalent of it) in the heat of the moment but coming up with something that would resound through history was a bit beyond her.

            “That is so fucking clichéd it’s actually appropriate,” the guy laughed as he buckled on his helmet. “At least it sounds better than ‘poop train’-“

            His reference to some antique video game was cut short by the Reaper’s beam hitting their location faster than Regan calculated; the other soldiers scattered as the ruby laser gouged the earth and stone of mountains nearly older than time. Now it was every person for themselves, everyone racing for the bunker that would, at best, provide scanty protection when the fire was ignited. Just because they were prepared to die didn’t mean they wanted to march into the afterlife.

            Regan crouched behind a bulwark of twisted metal and half-melted rock, bringing up her omni-tool to trigger the charges. The Reaper landed, seeking the source of the signals, its single eye a harbinger of doom to anyone caught under its baleful glare.

            **“Surrender and you will be given mercy,”** it commanded.

            “Fuck you!” screamed Duke, a Kiwi who reminded Regan of the Pommier-than-thou sorts from the Victorian era, as he stood up and fired his grenade launcher directly at that crimson eye.

            Through some grace of the gods or the universe’s way of rewarding sheer fucking badassery, the grenades he pumped out struck cleanly and exploded on impact, cracking the Reaper’s lens. It made a funny noise Regan assumed was pain and lashed out with a claw, turning Duke into red spray.

            The charges were set and counting down, so Regan stood up, removed one of her bandoliers of grenades and triggered all of them. “Your mother was a hamster and your father smelled of elderberries!” she screamed, totally ripping off good old Monty Python, as she biotically launched the grenades at the crack Duke made.

            The surviving soldiers joined her, firing whatever they could at the Reaper’s eye as it flailed, claws tearing through the remnants of the buildings they sheltered in. Taunts and curses rained down upon the space-prawn as the funny noise grew louder. When it reached its crescendo, the lens shattered and Regan heard the first explosions go off.

            “RUN LIKE YOU’RE JACK SPARROW BEING CHASED BY ZOMBIES!”

            Not the most professional of orders, but it got the few survivors bolting for the door to the underground shelter.

            Regan was the last in and slammed the door down just as the explosion washed over them. The metal melted and provided a protective shield but they had the laser tools to cut through it.

            She didn’t know if they’d just killed a Reaper, but she was pretty sure she’d done a good job of making it regret that it landed on Earth.

…

Admirals Hackett and Anderson looked like shit but Regan imagined they looked a hell of a lot better than General Jane Oates, who wasn’t even in uniform as she stood at awkward attention. This was the last of Australia’s high command, a thin, gangly woman whose keen mind was better suited to requisitions and organisation than tactics, but she was still a Digger.

            “Fucking hell, Shepard,” Hackett finally said after Regan relayed her report. “How come you never went to N-School?”

            “She didn’t want to,” Anderson said regretfully. “I made her the offer.”

            “Well, you’ve given us the best news since Williams got the turians and krogan on board,” Hackett told Regan. “Shepard, you’re officially Oates’ second in command.”

            Regan saluted while thinking _Oh shit_. “Yes sir!”

            “Reports have it that the Reapers are actually moving out of Australia,” General Oates told the Admirals.

            “We can confirm it,” Anderson said, sounding gleeful. “I guess Australia once again lives up to its reputation as completely deadly for outsiders.”

            Regan felt a big grin crack her face in two. They’d managed to scare the shit out of the Reapers.

            “This means we can shift the bulk of your forces to the New Zealand arena,” Anderson continued. “Reaper presence there is fairly negligible, but…”

            “I’d like to be able to show the Aussies how professionals get their work done,” Ngaire told the man with a grin.

            Regan considered responding with a sheep joke but the Maori Major deserved a better retort than that. She might need a few weeks to think about it.

            “Oates, you’re in charge of the Commonwealth Alliance Forces,” Hackett ordered. “I want them in the North American arena as soon as it can be managed. The Canadians in particular are getting hammered at the moment.”

            “If you haven’t noticed, we’re all getting hammered, and not in the ‘let’s get shitfaced’ kind of way,” Regan pointed out sarcastically.

            “But you and yours are the only ones on Earth who’ve achieved a victory,” Hackett said quietly. “The rest of us are trying to hold the fort so Williams can bring the galaxy to our aid.”

            Oates cleared her throat. “How’s Project Crucible going?” she asked.

            “It’s… going,” Hackett admitted with a sigh. “The Prothean designs are elegant and the salarians managed to send us some of their best to help us build it. But unless Williams can buy us enough time, we’ll be going the way of the Protheans.”

            Regan assumed that Project Crucible was some kind of super-weapon and inwardly shrugged her shoulders. She was a grunt despite her rank and the fight on the ground was her concern, not what the scientific geniuses were making.

            “Fine, we’ll kick the Reapers out of New Zealand and come save the Canadians,” she said aloud, wondering if Kaidan Alenko was still alive. She missed him and… well, she wished she’d found a way to make a relationship. There were ways to do so in the Alliance, so long as you weren’t part of the same squad. “You’re going to owe me a few beers when this is over though, sirs. I _did_ throw a space-prawn on the barbie for yas, after all.”

            Hackett’s face went slack as Anderson grinned. “Did you just trivialise the greatest threat to the galaxy since the Rachni as… ‘space-prawns’?” the old, scar-faced Admiral asked in disbelief.

            “Uh, yeah. They technically look more like the love children of robo-shrimp and bedbugs, but…” Shepard shrugged. “Calling them ‘space-bug-shrimp’ doesn’t have the same ring to it, sir.”

            “Only you, Shepard, only you,” Anderson said with a chuckle. “I’ll spread the nickname. It might boost morale a bit. Anderson out.”

            The Admiral’s image flickered and died, leaving Hackett’s colourless face looking at Regan, Ngaire and General Oates. “Good job, you three. When this is over and if we’re all alive, I’ll be seeing you sit on Alliance High Command. Keep it up. Hackett out.”

            He cut the connection, leaving the three women looking at each other. Then Oates sighed gustily.

            “I’m not the greatest commander. Colonel Shepard, unless your actions piss away precious resources, you’re in charge of all tactical decisions. Major Parata, you’re Shepard’s second in command, and if we both fall, you’ll lead the Commonwealth forces. Any questions?”

            “Yeah, I got one,” Regan said with a wry smirk. “Got any beer? Barbecuing Reapers has made me thirsty.”

            As was typical in Regan’s life, the General had beer, but it was Carlton instead of Fourex. Bloody southerners had no bloody taste in beer…

            Regan looked up at the metal ceiling of their underground bunker and wondered how everyone else was going. Australia was lucky because it had a lot of empty space but the more densely inhabited continents were fucked.

            _Come on, even the Aussies can’t fucking save the world on their own,_ she thought towards a distant Ashley Williams. _Come home and end this. Please._


End file.
